Unleashed

Chronicles of Cringe: Episode 2

This is my best friend’s favorite story. Monica, this one’s for you, boo.

As always, names in the story other than mine have been changed. Without further ado…

Unleashed: A Story of Shame and Barefoot Getaways

I’ve never been one to leave well enough alone. Not when I was four years old, begging my mom for a second or third cookie until the answer was magically yes. Not when I was 13, asking my Dad if a friend could sleep over so many times that he finally gave in. And not when I was 22, driving from bachelor number one’s house to bachelor number two’s, looking for something neither of them could give me.

You may be asking yourself: Two dudes in one night? How scandalous! This must have been in your drinking days.

But you would be wrong. I was stone-cold sober. Had been for almost a year. That’s the thing about folks who use drugs and alcohol to self-medicate and then stop: sometimes our behavior gets worse before it gets better. Because nothing improves until we find something bigger to take the pain away, which eventually I did, but in this window of time, I was floundering; in between remedies, if you will.

At some point in early sobriety, I’d decided to take an extended break from dating and sex as a way to cleanse my soul. I made it about six months before a hot older guy knocked me off that trajectory with the force of a thousand suns. It actually turned out to be a really good experience. Up until that point, sex had always been performative. Like an audition or competition—A sick idea that I had to outdo someone’s previous partners, otherwise I would cease to exist.

But this person was experienced. There was literally no world in which I came close to competing with his repertoire. So for the first time in my life, I just…enjoyed myself. It took knowing I’d never measure up to realize that no one was asking me to in the first place. That encounter sent me off on my healing journey with sex and intimacy in a lot of ways. But not before I tainted it.

So, I have this positive experience, and I decide that means it’s time to dive all the way back into the dating pool a la Tinder. Enter James. James is cute, funny, smart, has a job, has nice hair. If you’ve ever participated in any form of online dating, you know this is relatively rare.

On the first date, we got coffee, on the second, we went to a show, and on the third, we chilled at his house. We watched Francis Ha and then made out on the couch, but instead of coyly guiding me towards the bedroom, he led me to the door.

He smiled sweetly. “I’ve got an early day tomorrow. I’ll text you.”

I was offended. Had I done something wrong? Looking back on it, he was probably just a gentleman taking it slow, but I spiraled, obviously.

The time off from sex and dating was supposed to reset my system; it was supposed to make me a normal person. It was supposed to make me the kind of girl with whom you watched a movie and then shared a tender kiss. That girl was then supposed to return home to her sensible pajamas and 5-step skincare routine. But alas, I hurdled towards impulsivity-fueled sloppy seconds and off-brand Cerave.

Disappointed with how my night had played out, I dialed Vincent on the Bluetooth in my car, and his grumbling voice filled my hatchback like a siren song. “Yo.”

I had never let a one-syllable response stop me before. “Hey. Can I come over?”

An exhale. “Um… I guess. Why?”

“I had… I don’t know. A bad date?” But it wasn’t a bad date. It was actually a really good date. Nothing made sense anymore. Especially my thoughts or actions.

“Ok… I’ll text you my address. Front door’s unlocked.”

“See you soon.”

I plugged his address into my phone like a slave to my baser instincts. Then, feeling defeated, with my heart racing, I forced myself in the direction of my next mistake, like pushing together the wrong ends of a magnet. I’m not supposed to be doing this. I need to go home.

But I didn’t go home. I went to Vincent’s. The problem was that Vincent lived with my good friend, Greg. Greg knew I’d gone on a date this particular night. He’d wished me luck on said date. Greg had also advised me to let my rendezvous with Vincent be a one-night-only gig, to the benefit of all involved. The point is, Greg couldn’t know I was at the house.

I tiptoed up the steps, holding my shoes so as not to make a sound. Pop punk filtered through the crack at the bottom of a closed door that must have belonged to Greg, beckoning me towards simpler evenings with my crazy group of friends at a coffee shop, but I shoved it away and headed down the hall to Vincent’s lair.

“Hey,” he said without getting up from where he was scrolling in bed. I didn’t respond. Just climbed in and buckled up for the most underwhelming encore of all time. It tasted like the last cookie on a full stomach, and felt like the slumber party you should’ve let your parents say no to.

After, I haphazardly slipped back into my clothes. With my shirt inside out and my shoes in my hand, I tiptoed back down the stairs and out the front door. On the porch, I thought about slipping back into my Birks before making the trek down the block to where I parked, but my self-worth was at an all-time low. So, I opted for the dark grey char of the road staining my heels the way it did when I’d play outside too long as a kid.

I had just reached the end of the driveway, the sun warmed concrete radiating up through my soles, when a menacing sound tore through the quiet evening air.

Thundering paws. Feral yips. Fearsome pants. The fear of God pulsing through my nervous system and igniting my fight-or-flight response in the form of a quick jog at best, the sharp bite of gravel threatening to lodge itself in my feet.

There I was, freshly laid, running barefoot down the middle of the street with a pack of dogs on my tail, nipping at my heels. Well played, Universe. Well played. Message received.

“I’m a fucking dog person!” I yelled at the dogs from my driver’s side window once I was safe inside. They jumped and clawed at the car door, leaving scratches.

Anyway, in the name of honesty and fresh starts, I made the self-sacrificing decision to let James know I’d slept with someone else after our date. He was confused and put off. Not by my presumed infidelity, but that I thought we were exclusive in the first place. Oof. What a mess I had made.

I couldn’t leave the decent third date well enough alone, I couldn’t leave Vincent well enough alone, and then I couldn’t leave the whole damn thing well enough alone. I was always pushing, prodding, poking—eventually, I turned everything sour.

James and I didn’t go on a fourth date. Vincent and I never hooked up again. And that’s the way it was always supposed to be. I guess I have a talent for bypassing whatever bullshit lies between the detour and what’s meant to be. By means of a cyclone, no less, but hey, I was always going to have to rebuild at some point.

Regardless of my valiant efforts at rationalization, I was ashamed. But a few days later, I had my first coffee date with my would-be best friend Monica. For some reason, I felt safe enough to tell her the story, and instead of judging me, she died laughing. She had just started dating Greg, to whom she is now married, so she knew all about the pack of dogs on the block. Apparently, they were becoming a real problem. Well, so was I.

Maybe that’s why it’s her favorite story. Maybe she was just being nice. Or maybe it’s because we’ve all been chased by a metaphorical pack of dogs at one point or another, and it might as well have been on a walk of shame.